Wherever She Goes(69)

“That’ll seem suspicious, won’t it?” She looks around. “Why don’t you wait in the bedroom . . . no, those blinds are open. Maybe the back—” Footsteps sound on the front steps.

As she looks around again, Orbec rings the bell. Beth spins me toward a door off the kitchen. “The basement. Go down there and wait for me.”

“I’d rather—”

“I can handle this.”

I let her prod me onto the steps.

“There’s a TV room at the bottom,” she says. “Wait there.”

The door closes behind me as the bell rings again. As soon as her footsteps retreat, I creep back to the top step and crack open the door.

Orbec is knocking now. The dead bolt clanks. Then the front door squeaks open.

I have my gun in hand.

“Miz Kenner?” Orbec says. “Elizabeth Kenner?”

“Yes, that’s me, and whatever you’re selling—”

“I’m a friend of Kim’s.” Orbec goes on to weave a story about how he knows Kim and Brandon, and he was told that if anything ever happened to Kim, he’s to come to this house and ask for Elizabeth Kenner.

As he drones on, I relax. Beth was right. He’s not going to force his way in at gunpoint. It’s broad daylight in a residential neighborhood. He’s playing it cool with a plausible story. When that fails, he’ll retreat to formulate a new strategy.

That’s exactly what he does. Beth insists she has no idea what or who he’s talking about, and when she asks him to leave, he does.

The door closes. The house goes quiet, as if she’s watching him leave. Then I hear her voice, low, murmured. Something about . . .

A basement?

Did she just say something about a basement?

Is she on the phone to the police?

Why would she tell the police I’m in the basement?

She wouldn’t, and she hasn’t been on that phone long enough to explain the situation. She’s barely had time to place a call . . .

She hasn’t placed a call. Because she left her phone on the kitchen counter. She put it down before answering the door and never returned to the kitchen.

Which means . . .

I figure out what it means one second before I hear the murmur of another voice.

Hugh Orbec.

Beth just told him I’m in the basement. There’s no other explanation.

There’s no way I can get to the back door without them seeing me. I quickly shut the basement door and hightail it down the stairs. I race into the TV room. Turn on the light. Shut the door. Sprint down the hall. Open another door to find a laundry room with a window.

I shut that door and leave the light off. The window is right over the washing machine. I climb up onto it. It gives a creak, and I freeze, but the sound is covered by the thump of feet on the stairs.

The window is fixed, no way to open it. I grab a towel from the top of the dryer; then, with one eye on the door, I wrap the towel around my gun and force myself to wait.

The TV room door opens. As Beth calls “Aubrey?” I smash the window with the towel-wrapped gun. I wince at the noise but I clear the sill as fast as I can. Beth calls my name again, casual, not having heard the window break. I toss the gun out and hoist myself up and . . . Damn it, this is one time I wish I hadn’t kept those extra pounds.

My hips stick in the window. Beth calls again, but Orbec has already figured it out. He lets out a curse. I’m wiggling as hard as I can, pushing hard, trying—

My hips pop through just as the laundry door slaps open.

“You—” Orbec begins.

I don’t hear the rest. I’m sure he’s not complimenting me on my ingenuity.

As Orbec snarls curses, I spring to my feet and run. He comes after me, but for him, that means going through the basement, up the stairs, past Beth—who I’m sure will demand an explanation—and out the back door. By that time, I’ve vaulted over the fence and reached the street. From his footsteps, he presumes I’ve gone the way he saw me run—for the back fence. Instead, I’ve climbed the front one, and I’m already jogging down Beth’s road.

My gun’s put away, and I have my cell phone in hand instead, my fingers poised over the emergency button. If I hear anyone running behind me, I’ll push it. I take every turn I come to until I reach a small market.

The shop reminds me of the one in my old neighborhood, the kind that sells overpriced organic staples for those who can’t bother driving into the city. Which means it’s not like the corner stores in my new neighborhood, where Orbec could barrel in, grab me by the hair, and haul me out, and the clerks would busy themselves checking the cigarette stock.

Before I walk inside, I fix my ponytail, straighten my shirt, and then check for blood and dirt. There is some of both. I hadn’t done a perfect job clearing that windowsill, and I cut my bare arm. My hands and knees are filthy from crawling out into Beth’s garden. Fortunately, this is also the sort of shop that has a dog tap outside for thirsty pooches. I quickly clean my hands and knock dirt from my jeans. Then I go inside and call for a taxi.

Maybe I should be phoning the police, but honestly, I expect the taxi will come faster. I feel safe enough now, and the Chicago police would require a full explanation. If I gave it, they’d probably figure I was high on meth or oxy. So a taxi it is. As I wait I pick out a snack I won’t eat—gourmet soda and veggie chips—and then chat with the cashier until my cab pulls up.